A Motley Crew
by Fupi
Summary: In order to have a book, you need characters. In order to have a great book, you need diversity. Unfortunately, some characters fall through the cracks and thus are not richly discovered. These are character essays of such characters, largely or rarely known, as I tried to explore them on neutral (or most likely lighter) ground. Please feel free to suggest characters for me.
1. Forward

The wizardry world was buzzing in anticipation. There was said to be a new genre in The Quibbler that was being released that very day! All of the media - such as the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekley, even the Quidditch Reports - had written their own suspicious on what new, crazy topic the Quibbler had dug up. The most popular theory (and most logical) was a piece about non-existent creatures and other theories were muggle current news or conspiracies.

The owls arrived in every home, in every store, and in every office across the wizardry Great Britain.

 **Motley Crew, We Are**

 _By Ann Fupi_

 _Perhaps, "diverse" is a prettier, sounding word than "motley." I chose "motley" because ever since I was young, my father would tell me "Ann, you got a motley crew for friends." He would say this, because I did. I would befriend all sorts of people, instead of sticking to one type of person. As I grew up, I discovered that really the whole world is motley and beautiful. We each have such rich, colorful backgrounds, but unfortunately (and sadly) many tales are left forgotten. My goal is to look into a different person's story (muggle or magical) each week, find out what makes that person truly ticks, and unveil it. We are a motley crew, each with different talents and gifts but I think we are all the same._

 _Without further ado, let us begin with our first character analysis._


	2. Living A Façade

She had always been introverted. While most girls were begging for a Princess phone in their bedroom, she was not. She was in her best and only friend's room. She had no need for a personal phone and that was okay. She found immense joy in forming close relationships with a select few, to cultivate the relationships with her mother, father, sister, and her best friend to its full potential.

Then she grew up.

All of her relationships fell flat. Her relationship with her mother and father passed when they died at the threshold of her gateway of adulthood. Her relationship with her sister broke in bitterness. Her relationship with her best friend fell into oblivion when her friend left for university and she was hired as a typist.

Then she met _him_.

Her life, already broken, became centered around him. Their love story was like one of a movie. She was a lowly secretary, having eyes for her boss' son who is slated to take over. She, being completely ordinary, had thought he will never notice her. But he did and charmed her with expensive jewelry and chocolates.

Then she married him.

Her family became his and her sister was shunned by him. She put on the mask by day, living the life of a CEO's wife. By night, after exhausting social events (which, she, of course, acted as if it were a natural talent of hers), she would curl up on the sofa with hot tea and a journal. She would write, dreaming up fantastic dreams of her future and family and love.

She became pregnant and birthed a son. She was ecstatic, prideful of her sweet, beautiful baby boy. She wanted another little boy, so that her baby could have a brother to grow up and become best friends with. But, alas, the doctor had sat her down and gave her the hardest news ever: another pregnancy could risk her life.

Then she received a wedding invitation.

Her hands shook, nearly ripping the floral invitation into two. She casually mentioned it to her husband who snorted. She headed to her favorite charity shop for a wedding gift ( _after all,_ she told herself, _it is the most respectable thing to do_ ), combing the shelves for something decent. Then she found it. It was a chartreuse vase with floral patterning up the spine. It was not the most attractive vase; in fact, she said (under her breath) that it was "downright ugly." But the vase resembled her late grandmother's vase that she and her sister once broke after a rowdy game of tag. With mirthful tears, she bought the ugly vase, wrapped it, and sent it without her husband's knowledge. But her sister, the bride, did not understand the reference. So she avoided any future interactions with her sister.

Then she found someone.

Someone who made her laugh, made her smile, and made her remember, with fondness, of simpler time. Someone to become that little brother for her baby boy. But the bitterness and resentment had taken root, dug deeply in her heart, and she could not give the innocent little boy the life he deserved. She could not forgive herself, so she hid away emotions and bought secondhand clothes (all, coincidentally, from the same charity shop of the vase) for the boy. She never said "I love you" or kiss his boo-boo's, instead she said "get up" and taught him how to cook. She never told him of his mama, for fearing the guilt would annihilate her.

Then the boy left.

She cried herself to sleep. Not the gushing, loud, abrasive cry, but the silent one. The silent cry that no one, not even she at first, noticed. She just laid there on her side, her husband snoring beside her, as she stared numbly at the framed photographs of her parents. Her parents, sister, best friend, and her nephew were all gone, all left her alone. She just had her husband and son and she felt like a stranger to them and to herself. Fearful of losing the only two people in her life, she decided, that night, to do what she does best: keep up with the façade.

Then nearly a decade passed.

She was going to say something to the boy, now a young man. She wanted to, very much wanted to. It was all coming up. She was ready to burst out a heartfelt apology, tell the boy (for he was still a boy to her) about his mama and how much he is like her, but the fear lodged back in her mind of losing her husband and son. So she passed the boy to the car that was to take her away from her home to safety, and in the privacy of the car she smiled when she saw her baby boy walk up to the boy and offered a handshake. She did not give herself credit, for it was not her. It was all her son.

Then it is today.

She is sixty years old. Her youngest granddaughter was in the living room coloring. She watched, from behind the kitchen's bar, the small girl biting her lower lip as she carefully designed a house. She turned around, looking out the window at her grandsons playing with sticks outside.

"Grandma, Grandma," came the girl's voice, drawing her grandmother's attention back to her. "Look at what I did! Look!" The child's artwork was thrusted in the older woman's face and she froze, her hands shaking as she held the drawing (nearly tearing the paper).

The drawing of a house had a garden with colorful flowers, one scarlet flower was opening and closing on the page – literally! She closed her eyes, breathing in and then out, before reopening her eyes. It had happened. Another one. She looked down at her flaming red-haired granddaughter.

"We have a witch in the family," she said faintly, a grin creeping up on her face despite the pallor of her face.

"Grandma," came the incredulous, confused tone of the girl. "Why are you calling me a witch?"

Then the color flushed back to Petunia Evans Dursley's cheeks, her eyes brightened, and her soul felt much, much younger. She grabbed her granddaughter (after setting the magical drawing down) and flung her up, laughing gleefully, "You're a witch, Tuney, and boy, do I have stories for you!"


	3. A Cowardly Lion

In his youth, a friend showed him the muggle film _The Wizard of Oz_. He had had no prior experience of muggle films, having been raised in a strictly magical family, but became enthralled by the character of the cowardly lion, perceiving himself to be like the lion. He was not the most courageous of his classmates. He much rather tag after his friends, gripping his wand when they grip their wands, and hurl insults when they hurl insults. He was a follower, not a leader.

That same muggleborn friend - who he equated to be like Dorothy, for she was kind, sweet, and compassionate (and he may have had a teeny, tiny crush on her….) – was always encouraging him, supporting him to come out of his shell and do something brave. He remembered, once, upon hearing that he volunteered to become Professor Sprout's teaching assistant, his friend had tackled him in a fierce, bear-hug. He can still close his eyes and recall the feeling of her arms squeezing him, his bones nearly cracking by the impact, and how her jasmine perfume lingered on him even after she had pulled away.

He graduated from Hogwarts, excited and a little nervous. After all, he had been in school his entire life and now suddenly – with a piece of paper – he was out in the real world. But his Dorothy just smiled and hugged him. He will visit her often, cheered at her wedding, and played peek-a-boo with her child. He did not feel like a cowardly lion.

But all things come to an end. His mother had an unknown ailment and he was confronted. He was promised that his mother would be healed, all he had to do was follow instructions. The next time he appeared at his friend's house, he was that cowardly lion once again. He will tickled his honorary nephew with a feeble grin and quietly make jokes. The Scarecrow and The Tinman never guessed anything, but he could sense that his Dorothy perceived something was off.

"I was scared," he choked, standing in front of The Tinman – his friend who tries so hard to pretend he does not care, but in actuality has the biggest heart of anyone. "I'm not brave like you. They came up to me alone, made promises," he tried to explain. " _Padfoot_ -"

"Don't call me that, Coward."

And perhaps it was to prove that he was not a coward or the truth was too difficult to bare, that Peter Pettigrew changed his tune. He pulled out his knife (the one that Prongs had gifted him for being one of his groomsman), sliced his finger off, waved four fingers, and transformed into a rat.


	4. A Father's Love Can Change All

_"Our Father, which art in heaven,_  
 _Hallowed by thy name."_

 _(Matthew 6:9 King James Version)_

Many people would be shock if they saw the Lord's Prayer, on a tapestry, on her living room's wall. For she was not like the sort who would believe in something unseen, believe in a God that condemns witchcraft. And yet, that old handwoven tapestry has a place above her sofa.

 _"Thy Kingdom._  
 _Thy will be done in earth,_  
 _As it is in heaven."_

 _(Matthew 6:10, KJV)_

So often she found herself quoting this verse. Quoting it when a classmate slurs her for her upbringing. Quoting it when an employer overlooks her academic achievements because of the smudge on her heritage. Quoting it when the news depicts a world of terror, of strife, and the type of news where mothers want to hold their babies forever. She quotes this verse for a variety of reasons, some she does not even know, but for one reason she knows: It is for her daddy.

 _"Give us this day our daily bread_  
 _And forgive us our trespasses,_  
 _As we forgive them that trespasses against us."_

 _(Matthew 6:11-12, KJV)_

When she was a first year, freshly sorted, she wrote a letter to her daddy. She told him all about Hogwarts, her favorite classes, her house, her new friends, and even about the cute gray-eyed Slytherin boy in her year. The next day, at post, her face lit up when her owl swooped down with a letter from her daddy.

Promptly forgetting her orange marmalade-smeared toast and hot breakfast tea, she creased out the letter and read her daddy's neat cursive handwriting. Even to old age, his handwriting was still so neat and was more stereotypically feminine, something that always impressed his only daughter. She read his letter, her ear-to-ear grin falling as she masked her frown to be of a small smile. Her father made no mention of being proud, just that she would do good.

It was her first taste of her father's indifference of herself and she did not understand why. But it was the first time, she truly yearned for her father's approval.

Throughout her school career, she excelled academically, and all of her professors raved about her. She was among the best pupil, top of the class, and during winter and summer breaks she would return home. She would speak to her father, share jokes and stories but without a fail the moment would vanish leaving the daughter fatherless.

It was her fifth year. She was on the school grounds with her friends when a boy – that same, cute gray-eyed Slytherin – caused an altercation with her. She did not remember what the altercation was, for she and the boy often had several spats. But this particular one got nasty, hexes flew back and forth until the boy reverted to immature name-calling: "At least, I'm not a filthy half-blood" was what he had slurred.

The gray-eyed boy smirked and winked at her frozen look, before turning on his heels. She watched the Slytherin saunter away as her friends attempted to console her. Half-blood? Yes, she knew full well of her magical heritage. She knew that pureblood wizards and witches thought of people with a muggle heritage, such as herself, as below dirt. But never once, did she ever experience discrimination for being a half-blood.

The witch excused herself from her girlfriends, darting off inside and to a secret passageway. She kept running, her face white and before she knew it she was in an abandoned corridor. She hiccuped, leaned against the stone wall, and slid down the stone wall. Her bottom lip quivered, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. She thought back to her father and his ill-treatment toward her. Was his indifference because of her blood status? She balled her fist, shaking her head. It could not be so, not her father – not her daddy! After all, he married her mother and he knows full well what her mother and she is. He simply could not disparage his only daughter or his wife because of something so silly like magic!

"I will make Daddy proud."

 _"And lead us not into temptation,_  
 _Deliver us from the evil one."_

 _(Matthew 6:13a, KJV)_

And she worked hard in her academics and extracurricular activities. She graduated, her father was in attendance, and he told her congratulations for pleasantries. She blinked back tears, feeling more fatherless than ever. So, she changed the conversation and felt more fathered.

She met a boy (not the gray-eyed Slytherin, for he grew up and married a respectable well-bred, pureblood witch) and fell in love. She was pledged to marry the boy but backed out after taking a good, hard look at her parents' marriage. She feared that this boy, the one whom her heart loved the most, would give her the same disapprovingly look her father had given to his own wife.

Decades after her father's death, the daughter worked tirelessly and worked for others. She believed her father was never truly proud, never truly loved her. She wanted someone to think highly of her, to love every part of her being like a father should to his little girl. She would pray and go through the actions, but each time it felt falsified. She settled on working for others, hoping it would dissolve her yearning for a father's love if someone else loved her.

And people did admire her; but alas, it was never enough.

 _"For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, For ever and ever. Amen."_

 _(Matthew 6:13b, KJV)_

Then a day that would live on in history, a day of victory, although at the time it was a dark and solemn day, she pulled out an old wooden memory box. She unclasped it, pulling a gold cross out. She pulled out an old wedding ring and looped it through the chain, wearing both jewelry around her neck for luck. Today was the day she was going to fight for magic, for the magic that she so dearly loves. The magic that her father hated but was the same magic that made her brothers, her mother, and she who she was. For the first time, the daughter smiled and at peace that her father and she had different views of magic.

Before she closed the box, she discovered a yellowing torn page of a journal. Curious, she opened it and was shocked to discover the impossibly neat, cursive writing of her father:

 _Lord, I am at a dilemma. I love my wife and children, but I made a grave mistake. All my life I've been taught one thing and I acted as such, acted on how I raised. Now the most important people in my life do not know how much I love them. My daughter is grown, and I hope she is truly happy in her field, she missed out on so much because of the same fears I had. Father, forgive me of my transgressions. In some ways, I hate magic but only because of the rift it caused between my family and myself. I pray to You that my little girl will know that I love her, that I always loved her. Amen._

She pocketed the letter, stored the memory box away, wiped away tears, and said a prayer (and this time, it felt so incredibly right):

"Lord, I am at a dilemma," quoted the daughter, standing by the door. "All my life, I assumed Daddy hated me for my magic and I fought so hard to make him love me – all of me! But he always loved me, just afraid and scared on how to deal with something new. Now I'm afraid..." Her hand reached for the brass knob, her heart thumping. "But I put my fears aside. I will not let fear govern me no longer. Daddy's love and Yours is sufficient. I taught students impressive magic, to pick up their wands and fight. I have achieved powerful transformation skills at a young age. I am Minerva McGonagall, the proud daughter of muggle reverend Robert and witch Isobel McGonagall, and I stand for muggles and magic."


End file.
